Catching Up

I had surgery about two weeks ago -- well, an "outpatient procedure," which sounds much less impressive but still hurts, dammit. I guess things are okay; healing, anyway, which is something. I got home afterwards, in pain and sleepy yet restless, just generally miserable, really, and this is the day that my landlord decides to have our dangerous could-explode-any-minute oven replaced. And it took for-fricking-EVER. Not very restful. My mother, who went with me for the surgery -- excuse me, procedure -- fielded most of it and stayed with me until my hubby got home from work. (Thanks again, Mom!) It was a yucky day from start to finish. But after recently reading again about hospitals killing their patients, I feel lucky to be healing and reasonably sure no one left any foreign objects inside me.

We're not having a lot of luck with our house search. We have lots of doctors here, for some reason, some sort of Heal America program, I guess, and they don't seem to mind dropping a ridiculous amount of money on houses, thereby ruining the housing market for the rest of us. Please wish us luck, people! Cross your fingers, say a little prayer, think good thoughts, whatever you like, but get busy.

Poor Sass isn't feeling well; when I went home for lunch I found she had tossed her biscuits, and she's been acting oddly all day. I wish she could tell me what's going on; it's incredibly frustrating not knowing what's wrong. Yesterday I took her to the vet to have her nails clipped (she has black nails, so we're afraid we'll hurt her) and the lady who did them was really rough and the clippers were blunt and she cut two or three too close and my poor baby bled. She didn't even yelp or whimper, poor little thing, just endured it. I guess we might as well do her nails ourselves from now on; I don't think we'll do worse and we may do better since we actually care.

Anyway, more good thoughts and prayers for Sass, if you please. I hate it when she feels bad and looks at me with those big sad eyes and I can't do anything for her.

Who'd a Thunk?

Spoiler Alert: For those of you who don't want to know the Truth About Elmo, read no further!

I just found on another blog that Elmo is voiced -- or, rather, brought to life -- by a big black guy. I find that to be incredibly amusing. And he seems like a nice guy, which is good since Elmo is not only adorable but communicates with children regularly.

Go here to see.

The Gray Girls

I just realized that I haven't posted a picture of our girls here yet (at least I don't think so). So here they are:

Adorable, aren't they? Well, we think so. Sassy is to the left, Molly to the right.

Small Town Life

Here's an example of what I love about living in a small town:

Avast, ye scurvy dog!

• Does (do) your lady love(s) need a reminder of your constant, if unwashed, love?
• Does your parrot deserve an extravagant apology for your persistent insensitive allusions to her as "shoulder bling"?
• Do you need to disarm your equally toothless and limb-challenged adversary, thus granting yourself ample time to find the treasure conveniently marked with a big red X on the map you alone were lucky enough to find rolled up in a bottle that washed up on the beach where you were stranded when you double-crossed your boss?

*whew*

If you answered yes to any of the above questions, then you've struck gold, matey! Unhand that telescope and shiver your timbers on over to:

Jolly Roger's Flowers ~N~ More
Your One-Stop Shop for Booty and Plunder
(Minus the Messy Inconvenience of Maiming and Killing)

We Welcome Spanish Doubloons!
We also accept Visa, MasterCard, and most traveler's checks.

Groovy Tunes

Lately I’ve been on a quest to gather songs that trigger fond childhood memories. Right now I'm working on the 70s. I thought I’d end up with maybe around a hundred songs, but as it turned out, it was closer to four hundred! (So sue me for having a happy childhood.)

I really miss songs that tell stories. When I was little, I would act them out with my sisters and cousins and that was some kind of fun. It really was. But there’s no acting out a song that consists of a chorus repeated ten times. So, on my list of favorite songs are such classics as Vicki Lawrence’s “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” and Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe.”

I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m enjoying listening to these songs again! I’m planning to do the same thing with the 80s and 90s but not right away. It is quite an undertaking. Thank goodness for samples at Amazon and elsewhere that I can check to make sure I’m finding the songs I think I remember.

(And yes, I realize I’m completely aging myself with this post, but if you’re polite, you won’t mention it.)

Take Me Home, Country Roads

My husband and I are currently looking for a house. Or land on which to build a house. In a small town like ours, it's not always easy to find what you're looking for. Or even anything for sale, sometimes. Well, that's not strictly true; there is always something for sale. Unfortunately, it's often bounded by neighbors with rusted-out former vehicles up on blocks, several small mysterious outbuildings crowding the overgrown front yard, vicious starving animals that are probably small dogs but could just as easily be large voluble rats, and every Christmas decoration known to man stuffed into crevices not already occupied by said vehicles, buildings, or animals. And who knows what's going on in the back?

No thanks.

There have been a few possibilities. And I have to say everyone we've spoken to has been extraordinarily nice. I do realize they are trying to make a sale, so they're probably not going to show their backsides, but still. Friendly. I can't tell you how many times we've heard, "Now, I'm own be honest witcha..."

This is usually a ginormous red flag to me, signalling complete dishonesty of the barefaced variety, but who knows? Maybe they are being honest. Word gets around in a small town in about two shakes of a lamb's tail (one if it's particularly scandalous). Quick, is what I'm saying. It's not good for business if it gets around that you're a little shady in your dealings. Not honest business, anyway.

I keep hoping for the best in people and trying to see it even if my eyes are almost closed from squinting so hard. Sometimes I choose to believe they're being honest, when we have no way of knowing for sure. I opt for the positive. My husband is the opposite; he believes all people are selfish and only out for themselves. Sadly, he is often proved right. I hate that.

Anyway, wish us luck as we continue our quest. We need it!

Grudge Match

Have you ever played an online game that seemed to get more difficult as you played, never allowing you to win? That's counterintuitive, to me; it seems like a game should take pity on you as you stack up the losses, and get easier little by little until eventually you win, like those computer-administered standardized test problems. I mean, they want you to enjoy the game so you'll buy it, right? Or at least keep coming back for more and boosting their site stats?

Of course, this presupposes that it's not completely random. But sometimes it seems as if the game senses your desperation or, in my case, grim determination to win, and keeps almost being defeated. I don't mind a challenge; I enjoy it, relish it even. But I don't like being taunted. Especially by a machine. That's just not right.

Stink-nicity

Those of you who work with the public know the trials and travails that go with the territory. But, for those of you who don’t enjoy daily contact with the rude and the malodorous, I'd like to share with you a recent encounter.

This one lady (I use the term loosely) (no pun intended!) comes in regularly to chat on Yahoo IM. Her visits also seem to regularly entail dating services. Okay, whatever. No big deal, not my business. BUT. Now we only have one computer that has a working Yahoo IM application. We’ve reported this repeatedly, but our computer people aren’t interested in getting this fixed. They continually inform us that the library is not at the top of their priority list. (Which leads to the obvious question of why we have to be open all day Saturday and some of Sunday when the vital offices that get all their computers worked on first -- because otherwise work isn't getting done -- are closed???)

But I digress. To get back to the story, this lady, okay, woman, would come in and loudly complain if anyone was on that computer for TOO LONG or God forbid, WASN’T USING YAHOO IM. So I had to institute a sign-in sheet for that computer with a one-hour time limit. Not an unreasonable request, and I didn’t mind doing it, but of course she still complained.

Then another patron told me about a url that allows you to use instant messenger programs, a sort of back door to them. (It’s www.ebuddy.com, if you’re interested.) So I posted a sign with that url and took down the sign-in sheet for the one computer, as it wasn’t really effective anyway.

So what did our friend do? I'm sure you guessed it: she complained. She claimed the url doesn’t work, even though it worked for me and it has worked for countless others. Fine, whatever, but I’m not making people get off that computer just because she likes the application better. I’m sorry that we only have it on one machine, and I’ve asked them repeatedly to fix this or give me authorization to, but no go. I explained this and she finally sort of let it go. For now anyway.

Then yesterday she came in to use a computer. There are eleven computers in my area (Reference) and only two people were in here using computers. That left nine other computers free. NINE. So which one did she choose? The one that some lame-o patron decided to reconfigure by running the mouse with the cord coming from under the front of the desk/table instead of dropping behind like it’s supposed to! So she, of course, complained and asked me to fix it. I said I would get someone to come fix it, because I didn’t want to crawl around in a skirt, and I mentioned that there were several other available computers. She said she’d fix this one and proceeded to try, struggling with her ridiculously long fake fingernails, unplugging something else instead, and then finally unplugging the mouse, dropping the cord behind the desk, and plugging it back in.

While I was standing next to her to make sure everything got plugged in correctly (she was busily unplugging and replugging by the time I got over there), a wave of pure bodily funk poured off her and streamed right up my defenseless nostrils. UGH. It was not only body odor, which anyone working with the public or children of a certain age is familiar with. In addition to that lovely aroma was added the delicate, flowery perfume of an overweight woman who needs (a) a good bath with stout soap, a lathery washcloth, and lots o’ scrubbin’, (b) superstrength FDS, (c) DOUCHE DOUCHE DOUCHE, or possibly (d) all of the above. For those of you unfamiliar with this particular stench, I’m here to tell you it is NOT just "not-so-fresh." I work with soldiers, people, and they do not smell this bad! I had to fake a reason to return to my desk to avoid gagging or turning blue from holding my breath.

Then of course the mouse wouldn’t work. I told her the computer just needed rebooting so it could recognize the mouse, and braced myself to walk back over there. Because the reboot took longer than oh my God two seconds, what did she do? She MOVED TO ANOTHER COMPUTER.

Look, lady, if I can stand here breathing your stinkation for as long as it takes a computer to reboot, that I have to reboot because you INSISTED on using it, you can damn well sit there and wait!!

But no. She moved on. Which at least had the blessed effect of removing the cloud of stink from my immediate breathing area, allowing me to get the computer logged in again and retreat to my desk for some relatively pure oxygen before passing out. Ahh, sweet breathable air! I just sat and breathed for a few moments and made a mental note to tell my husband that if he ever smells the slightest bit of funk emanating from me to not let me leave the house even if it takes a full nelson to stop me. She is fortunate, constant reader, that dating services do not include scratch-n-sniff capabilities or smell-o-rama.

And lest you think I am being too hard on her, let me remind you that she is consistently troublesome and often downright rude. I didn't even mention the long loud conversations on her cell phone.

I try to be understanding and accommodating, as that is not only part of my job but also my nature, and I can take a lot, but the odor is what finally got me. I've discovered my Waterloo. A sensitive olfactory nerve is not your friend if you work with the public.

Love / Hate

Here's something I don't like about the blog world -- I find people who seem really great, funny, interesting, people I'd like to know, then, of course, find out they live a thousand miles away. At least. And since I'm more of a lurker than a commenter, they'll never get to know me at all, even virtually. I find that sad, for some reason. Like a missed opportunity.

I do realize that even though they seem great and I feel like we would be immediate friends, like first-graders bonding the first day of school because they have the same backpack, instantly recognizing soulmate potential by their shared taste in what they've chosen to show the world as they walk away, that might not actually be the case. They might not be so great, or they might think I'm not so great. I like to think I generally have a pretty firm grasp of reality.

Of course, the thing I really like about the blog world is that I get to "meet" these interesting people. And I don't even have to cook dinner for them or get dressed to go out with them or clean up after they come to visit. (Or, more likely, before they come to visit.) What could be easier than that?

And it's lovely to be able to read things by people who make me laugh, who make me feel like I'm not the only person in the world who thinks this way, or the only one who has gone through that, people with whom I can identify. Especially since they're people I otherwise wouldn't have known at all.

So, turns out I love the blogging world more than I hate it. Which is good, since that's where I'm writing about it.

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Library World

I was just doing my little library job, which at that moment entailed cutting out a picture of an album cover I printed from Amazon because we no longer have the one that came with the CD, when it occurred to me that I know people who would think (or possibly say), "If that was my job, I'd have to kill myself." I realized that I once would have thought that, but not anymore. I was actually kind of enjoying myself.

Does this mean I've grown up? Given up? Have I lowered my expectations too much or have they just become realistic? Should I go ahead and kill myself now or wait to see what happens next? Maybe I'll staple some papers together! Or print out a sign that no one will read! Or receive a work-related mass email that means nothing to me!

That's what I live for: those goose-bump moments that take you by surprise.

Links of Interest

I just realized how much I like reading people's blogs and finding cool things to check out from them. So here's my contribution.

If you like (or think you might) Justin Timberlake, you can check out his latest single at his website. Sweet to be able to listen to the whole song from there! And it's pretty good. A little repetitious for me, and it doesn't really sound like him, which I guess is neither here nor there. Nor anywhere, really.

You can also check out Nelly Furtado's latest at her site. I'm not so crazy about that one.

If you like Mah Jong, here is a fun version.

This site has cartoons based on spam subject lines. Some of them are downright hilarious. Be sure to check out HELLO ME NOT DEAD.

A lot of Kirsten Ulve's work reminds me of animation and art when I was a kid. Very groovy.

Fun t-shirts here and here.

Okay, that's all for now. Enjoy!

Should I?

You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy)

You're a great thinker and a true philosopher. You'd make a talented professor or writer.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

Chowgirl

You Are a Chow Puppy

Don't fence me in! You're an independent spirit that won't be tied down.

What Breed of Puppy Are You?

Good Morning, Sunshine!

I am a librarian, and I haven’t discussed that at all, so I figure it’s about time. I don’t really have a lot of funny/weird stories because much of my time has been spent in the back, cataloging. Well, okay, so I don’t have a lot of funny/weird stories about patrons.

But I have had jobs at different libraries, and have spent my share of time on the reference desk (especially now that I practically live at one), so I have had some close encounters with the strange and the smelly.

The worst experience so far that didn’t involve an encounter with an actual human was finding child pornography downloaded onto our computers. Nice way to start the day! This was a whole new level of disgusting and disturbing. And frustrating, as I was told by our computer people that there was “nothing they could do.” I beg your pardon? So now I just look for questionable things on the desktop every so often and delete what I find.

(Why are people so disgusting?!?!)

One day not too long ago I walked up to my desk, which is the reference desk. (Yes, as you may have suspected from an earlier comment, my desk is in fact the reference desk. I could go on and on about this state of affairs but I’ll spare you. For now.) There is a patron talking on my phone! Now, we provide a phone for patrons to use for local calls, completely free of charge. It is not the one on my desk.

So, as he was not actually speaking at the time, I said, “Sir, you’re not supposed to be using this phone.” He nodded and smiled like I’d just said, “Good morning, you handsome devil!”

I came around the desk, put my things away, and logged on to my computer. Thinking, Now he’ll realize this is my desk and he’ll get off the phone. Silly me! Courtesy is for fools, apparently.

He kept talking and talking, about some position or job offer or something. I made eye contact and told him again he needed to get off this phone. He didn’t. Finally, he wrapped up his conversation, just as I was about to disconnect the phone.

I told him again, “Sir, you’re not allowed to use this phone. We provide one in the computer lab for your use.”

He said, very sarcastically, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it would be all right, it was an urgency.” (Yes, he said urgency instead of emergency.) (And it wasn’t either one.)

I said, not sarcastic at all, and trying hard to be polite, “I’m sorry, but it didn’t sound like an emergency to me. This is my phone, and patrons aren’t supposed to use it.”

He said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you paid the bill on this phone.” Each word simply dripping sarcasm. Really, I think he cornered the market on it.

I said, clutching my patience and professionalism to me so tightly they could not breathe, “I don’t, sir, but it’s still my work phone. How would you like it if I walked into your office and started using your phone?”

He said, “If it was an urgency, I wouldn’t mind.” The voice of reason and compassion!

I said, “Well, it didn’t sound like an emergency to me.”

And there we left it.

Another wonderful start to another wonderful day!!

(Don't you just hate when you can’t think of anything clever to say when you really need to and then later think of all the great things you should have said?)

And Now for Something Completely Different

It has been pointed out to me that my last post was very similar to a previous post of mine, so today's post will be brief, and, as promised, completely different.

Product Plug: CoverGirl LashExact Mascara

It really does go on without clumping, and I've had no trouble with it smearing or flaking! Love it!

Greener Grass

I'm back! With another brilliant and incisive personal post.

I keep running into people, myself included (not that I actually run into myself, mind you), who say things along these lines: “I hate my life”; “my life sucks”; “I’ve got to get out of here!” Now, these people are not in what appear to be horrible situations – they have jobs, homes, clothing to wear, food to eat. Most of them also have some spending money for the occasional CD, movie, dinner out, new something-they-don’t-really-need-but-that-makes-them-momentarily-happier. So what gives? Why this miasma of misery? There’s no real reason that I know of that any one of these people (myself included) can’t do something to make themselves happier. And yet they (we) don’t. I wonder why.

Of course, I suspect that some of it is a generational funk. We of the Me Generation and after were not raised to have the stiff upper lip, “theirs not to reason why” attitude. We are, on the whole, soft. And we have the luxury of looking around to see what other people have and what they’re doing and now we have a whole generation trying to keep up with the Joneses. Which is, as we all know, a horrible downward spiral with no happy Disney ending in sight.

But it seems like we do work harder with less to show for it these days, and in some areas you practically have to bankrupt yourself to get your children a decent education (which is sooo not right). I don’t think this is all a keeping-up-with-the-J’s kind of thing. I think we’ve got some serious issues as a nation that no one is willing to address. Oh well, easy for me to say, I guess. I’m not exactly proposing solutions here.

I also think our increased globalization contributes to this free-floating wretchedness. Before TV, who knew that some inexcusable excrescence like Paris Hilton (Lindsay Lohan, Tara Reid, [insert drunken bimbo here]) even existed? Or if we did know, we could be fooled into thinking she actually deserved to live by clever stage managing. Now we have her publicly declaring herself unfit for any place in civilized society every time we turn around, whether it be out of her own mouth, by yet another slit-eyed drunken picture in yet another mimbo’s jet / limo / arms, or simply by the outfit she’s wearing. People like me, relatively normal people who work hard, are honest, and try to do good things, are well on our way to early strokes because of the unfairness of it all. And I think we have a point.

And yet.

I know I could do more with my life that would make me happier and more satisfied. But I feel like I can’t, for some reason. Am I paralyzed by the staggering array of choices I have today? Am I afraid that it wouldn’t be all I had cracked it up to be in my imaginings? Am I simply afraid of failure, that if I fail, I won’t have any money, and then no safety net for when I inevitably have a stray piano fall on my head or catch cancer from a passing public toilet seat?

Sigh. Okay, so I realize I’ve got a little problem here. (And I don't mean catching cancer from a toilet seat. I know that’s not possible. It’s gout from a toilet seat, cancer from burned hotdogs.) What I find interesting is that so many other people I know seem to have the same problem. Why so much dissatisfaction? Why so much anger?

I think we are overcrowded and in too much of a hurry and TV is ruining us all.

Ten Things I Find Undeniably Attractive

10. Capris / Gauchos / Culottes

9. Lingerie as outerwear, including parts, like bra straps; equally attractive: missing lingerie (specifically a slip, a brilliant invention intended to keep your skirt from wadding up between your thighs as you walk)

8. Pants hanging on to your hips/buttocks solely by the grace of God

7. A tongue ring that makes it impossible for you to speak properly

6. Very large tattoos across your pregnant belly

5. Clothing worn two or three sizes too small, when you really don’t have anything to flaunt (or, rather, you have too much)

4. Your Cadillac painted Pepto-Bismol pink

3. Calvin urinating on anything on your rear windshield

2. Git Her Done (or any variant thereof) across your rear windshield

1. Your car proudly proclaiming in large sparkly pink letters:
There Goes Miss Wal-Mart

Birds in Tuxedos

Speaking of good movies (weren't we?), have you seen March of the Penguins? Brilliant! I hate to admit that a Frenchman did anything worthwhile, partly because ze French were so rude to me when I was over there years ago, but I have to admit it in this case. I know it’s been out a long while now and I should realize that the world’s love affair with penguins has just about run its course, but as mine hasn’t, I feel compelled to talk about the cute little buggers. Of course, the movie isn’t cute, or about them being cute (well, partly; have you seen those baby penguins?!). It’s mostly about them being so darn intrepid. It’s hard for me to watch, actually; I have a really hard time seeing animals suffer hardships or, God forbid, actually die as I watch helplessly, sitting on my couch with no way to just pick him up, dammit!

This movie made me alternately admire the penguins for steadfastly persevering in spite of the eternal hardships they endure and condemn them for so stupidly enduring such ridiculous hardships. I know it’s not their fault, of course; I realize they don’t have a choice. Evolution plunked them down in this Godforsaken place and it’s nothing less than astonishing that they’ve survived at all. The emotion I felt most keenly, however, was shame. I was (and remain) ashamed of ever complaining about anything in my life. (Of course I still do; I’m got too many years invested in this attitude to shed it that easily. But I want to be better; that counts for something, right?)

I really wanted to adopt all of those poignantly comical (comically poignant?) penguins and put them somewhere cold (but not an icy vortex that has got to be one of the circles of Hell), free from predatory seals (never expected to say that), and full of nice plump fish to eat (sorry, fish). Hmm, I seem to have invented a zoo (or an aquarium, the Zoo with Water). Ideally the penguins wouldn’t have to be dependent on people to take care of them in their little wet zoo, but then we’re back to Nature and survival of the fittest. Sigh. Why can’t we all just get along?!

Okay, I know, everything has to eat, one way or another. Circle of life, it’s natural and beautiful, yada, yada, yada. But as I tell my father every time he wants to watch a nature show featuring animals eating animals (usually when we're trying to eat), “I know it’s Nature, but I don’t have to watch it.”

With this movie, I’m glad I did. If you haven’t seen it, rent it immediately. And make sure you have plenty of Kleenex.

The Greatest Escape

Reading is the perfect escape for me and I’ve just figured out why. I guess I’ve known why, really, intuitively, I simply never articulated it before. Here it is: not only is it an escape from a world I don’t much like (well, the people part, anyway), but it is an escape into a world I largely get to create. I choose the book to match my mood and then while reading, I get to imagine the characters, the place, everything, just how I want it to be. The power!

Movies can be nice escapism, but everything is there for you, even forced on you. Not only do you not have to think or put any effort into it beyond looking and listening, there’s really only so much you can do. Not that I’m anti-movie. I love a good movie; it’s just that there are so few of them out there.

TV is the same, but it’s usually an even more vapid medium than film. That being said, there are TV shows that I love. One is the old Gilmore Girls, as anyone reading this blog already knows. Others are Joss Whedon’s creations – Buffy, Angel, and the cruelly shafted way-way-way too short-lived Firefly. What a great show that was. They all were, really, though Buffy went into a decline, in my opinion, before it finally ended. Part of the reason I like these shows so much is that they were (and to some extent Gilmore Girls still is) so well-written, and (mostly) so well-acted. But also they were all great at creating atmosphere and pulling the audience into their world. I felt like I knew all of those people, and I cared about what they were doing.

But I still prefer to read. I like the freedom of creating my own images to go with the story. I’m usually disappointed when a book I like is turned into a movie or television show, even if the adaptation is extremely well-done. Because now I’ll picture Daniel Radcliffe every time I read a Harry Potter book, and I no longer remember how I pictured Harry when I first read The Sorcerer’s Stone. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Daniel Radcliffe; I’m not sure they could have found a better young actor to play Harry Potter. But he’s still not my Harry.

So, vive le livre! The book is dead; long live the book!

Sting-nicity

I had forgotten how much I liked the Police song Synchronicity II until I listened to it recently. (Yes, it's been Old Home Week with me and music lately.) I think it's brilliant. As is, of course, King of Pain , which I love, love, love. I have never figured out why it wasn't more popular.

I would like to take a moment to thank Sting for references to such things as Mephistopheles and the Scylla and Charybdis in his songs. Songs that were played on the radio. A lot. Do we get such literary references in popular music these days? I think not. He easily stumped me, callow youth that I was, but he also stumped my English teacher, who of course did not admit it but loftily told me to look it up, as that was the best way to learn. Indeed it was. (Not to mention the only way.)

But I don't want to be too hard on my teacher, whom we all loved. We are talking small-town Louisiana public school here, not exactly an exclusive prep school. But hey, it was free and I would say I got a pretty good general education there.

I've found Sting's more recent works to be disappointing; actually I haven't liked anything since ...Nothing Like the Sun. Admittedly I never really listened to much after that besides what I heard on the radio, but if I didn't like those songs, why should I buy an album or cassette (yes, those days, in the Before Time, in the long-long ago) on the off chance I would like any of the other songs? (Call me cheap, but I'm not exactly made of money. Keep in mind there was no burning or ripping of songs then; you were lucky if you could hold your tape recorder up to your radio and catch a decent rendition without your mom or sister bursting into the room or the DJ talking over the end and effing it all up.)

To give Sting the benefit of the doubt, maybe it's me. Maybe I changed. Maybe I just needed some time alone.

Be that as it may, I miss intelligent, if a bit pretentious, lyrics in pop songs. Imagine it, pop songs! To whom can Sting pass this literary torch? O Modern Pop Music, where is thy Sting?